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    The Planet Killers: Three Novels of the Spaceways
    The Planet Killers: Three Novels of the Spaceways
    The Planet Killers: Three Novels of the Spaceways
    Ebook477 pages6 hours

    The Planet Killers: Three Novels of the Spaceways

    By Robert Silverberg

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    About this ebook

    This trio of early short novels by Grand Master Robert Silverberg is straight-up pulp science fiction at its finest
     
    As a young man, Robert Silverberg was a science fiction prodigy, turning out top-flight stories in the blink of an eye. Though written quickly, Silverberg’s early prose already showed evidence of the literary and imaginative qualities that would make him a giant in the field. Here are three of his best early works.
     
    In The Planet Killers, after Earth’s supercomputer calculates that the inhabitants of the planet Lurion will destroy Earth in sixty-seven years, Roy Gardner is sent to stop them—by any means necessary. In The Plot Against Earth, Special Investigator Lloyd Catton’s efforts to crack a ring of “hypnojewel” traffickers uncovers a galaxy-wide conspiracy. And in One of Our Asteroids Is Missing, when miner John Storm stakes claim to an asteroid with a king’s ransom of rare minerals, he’s set for life—or would be, if his discovery didn’t also mark him for death.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJul 28, 2015
    ISBN9781504014243
    The Planet Killers: Three Novels of the Spaceways
    Author

    Robert Silverberg

    <p>Robert Silverberg has won five Nebula Awards, four Hugo Awards, and the prestigious <em>Prix Apollo.</em> He is the author of more than one hundred science fiction and fantasy novels -- including the best-selling Lord Valentine trilogy and the classics <em>Dying Inside</em> and <em>A Time of Changes</em> -- and more than sixty nonfiction works. Among the sixty-plus anthologies he has edited are <em>Legends</em> and <em>Far Horizons,</em> which contain original short stories set in the most popular universe of Robert Jordan, Stephen King, Ursula K. Le Guin, Gregory Benford, Greg Bear, Orson Scott Card, and virtually every other bestselling fantasy and SF writer today. Mr. Silverberg's Majipoor Cycle, set on perhaps the grandest and greatest world ever imagined, is considered one of the jewels in the crown of speculative fiction.</p>

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      The Planet Killers - Robert Silverberg

      The Plot Against Earth

      Chapter One

      The morning was bright, clear, and crisp. The sun, a blazing yellow-white ball, climbed toward its noonday height, casting long shadows in the streets of the city of Dyelleran. This was the hot season on the main continent of Morilar. Those beings whose business forced them out into the open moved rapidly toward their destinations. Only a few stopped to peer at the Earthman.

      Lloyd Catton was his name. He was tall, tall as any of the elongated natives of Morilar, but unlike them he was solidly and powerfully built, with none of their spindly flimsiness. He was built to stand up to punishment—even the punishment of a noontime walk in 115-degree heat. One didn’t go to an alien world expecting to find comfort and convenience.

      Catton was dressed in the accepted style of a Terran diplomat: a light-weight sleeveless red doublet, gloves of green velvet trimmed with orange, a golden sash. His dark brown hair was cropped close to his skull. The gleaming blaster fastened to his sash was purely for ceremonial purposes: it neither could be fired nor was intended to be fired. A local law prevented non-residents from carrying any sort of functional weapons, but Catton’s official position required him to be at least decoratively armed.

      An attache case dangled from his left hand. In it was his identification plaque, as well as the credentials naming him for the post of Special Investigator for the Terran Work Government. Sweat beaded his broad back and shoulders, pasting the doublet to his skin. This assignment, he knew, might keep him on Morilar for a long time. He was simply going to have to get used to the heat.

      He crossed a broad well-paved street and looked up at the name-label riveted to a building wall. Translating from the wedge-shaped Morilaru characters, he read: Street of Government. He nodded, satisfied. This was the place he had intended to reach. And he had found his way across the city from the Terran Embassy by himself, without the need of asking a single person for directions, on his first morning here. That was the sort of performance his job was going to require as a constant norm.

      He had arrived late the night before, on a special liner non-stop from Earth. By arrangement, he was quartered at the Terran Embassy. Last night he had met the Ambassador and his attractive young daughter, Estil; this morning, he was due to present his credentials to the Interworld Commission on Crime, of which he was now a member. Catton had been well prepared for this mission. He had been chosen with care from the entire corps of Terra’s Special Agents.

      Standing at the head of the broad street, he looked to the west and saw imposing sleek-walled buildings rising on both sides. His eyes took in the unfamiliar Morilaru numbers, and he searched until he had the one he wanted. There it was—Number Eleven, Street of Government. The towering building with the gray-and-yellow decorative pattern along its flanks. Catton walked toward the main entrance.

      There was no door, only a golden curtain of force. The Earthman stepped through, and his nostrils registered a faint tang of ozone as he passed through the field. He knew he had just been scanned for dangerous weapons. He knew he would never have passed successfully through the field if he were carrying anything more deadly than the plugged blaster. The Morilaru were an innately suspicious race.

      A guard paced back and forth in the pleasantly cool, antiseptically austere lobby of the official building. He stared curiously at Catton for a moment; it was not every day that Earthmen came in here. Catton paused, wondering if the guard would hail him. But the guard made no sign of interference. The Earthman walked past him and into the open liftshaft that waited for him, as if by special appointment, in the rear of the lobby.

      Once he was inside, the walls of the liftshaft closed instantly around him. Catton eyed the indicator dial and twisted it to the Morilaru equivalent of Sixteen. Purring smoothly, the liftshaft rose. The gravitic column that was pushing it upward halted at the building’s sixteenth floor. Catton got out.

      A frosted office door confronted him. The inscription, right-to-left after the manner of Morilaru writing, read:

      INTERWORLD COMMISSION ON CRIME

      Please enter.

      Catton put his hand to the doorplate and the frosted door flicked open. He stood at the threshold, his hand tightening convulsively on the sweaty handle of his attache case.

      A Morilaru receptionist smiled coolly up at him from her desk. It was impossible to tell her age; she might have been twenty, or just as easily seventy. She wore the green crest of an unmarried woman twined in her hair. Her skin was a soft purplish hue; her eyes, light crimson, stood out brilliantly against that background. The clinging blouse she wore left her shoulders bare, revealing the three little inch-high nubbins of bone on each shoulder that marked the chief external anatomical difference between Terran and Morilaru.

      She said, using the local Morilaru dialect, You have an appointment, sir?

      Catton nodded. Pouin Beryaal is expecting me. My name is Lloyd Catton. From Earth. He spoke the language fluently; after a hundred hours of intensive hypnotraining in the three major Morilaru dialect variations, it was not surprising.

      Lloyd Catton, she repeated tonelessly, as if memorizing. From Earth. To see Pouin Beryaal. Yes. Just one moment, Lloyd Catton. I will check.

      Catton waited while she spoke briefly into an intercom grid. She used a somewhat different dialect, apparently not realizing that Catton would be aware of its implications. All she said was, The Earthman is here to see you, Pouin Beryaal. But the inflected form of the dialect was an expression of contempt. Catton was not annoyed, merely interested. It was vital to him to know exactly how all of these outworlders, whether receptionists or potentates, regarded Earthmen.

      He was unable to hear Pouin Beryaal’s reply. A moment later an inner door opened and a male Morilaru appeared—a hulking purple-skinned spider of a man, with enormous elongated arms and legs. I am the secretary to Pouin Beryaal, the Morilaru said in his own language. You will come this way.

      Catton followed him inside. The atmospheric pressure dropped considerably in the inner office. Evidently they had conditioners on in here. Catton’s ears were discomforted by the change, but at least it was a relief to emerge from the steam-bath for a while. The humid climate of Morilar was hellish.

      His guide kicked a doorstop and a wooden slat door folded up with a loud clap, admitting them to a circular office whose walls were an iridescent blue-green that flickered irregularly down to the violet end of the spectrum and back again.

      A Morilaru sat at the head of a wide table, and his posture and demeanor left no doubt that he was Pouin Beryaal, chairman of the Interworld Commission on Crime. Seated to his right was an enormously fleshy orange-skinned being whom Catton recognized as a native of Arenadd, and to Beryaal’s left was a gaunt, spectral gray creature from the Skorg system. All three outworlders were staring at Catton with undisguised curiosity.

      The Morilaru said, I am Pouin Beryaal. Do you speak Morilaru, Earthman?

      The rules of interstellar contact, Catton said evenly, require government personnel to be capable of speaking the language of the world to which they are assigned. I understand your language. My name is Lloyd Catton.

      Sit down, Lloyd Catton, Pouin Beryaal said, making no comment on Catton’s acid reply. It was difficult to judge from the intonation, but it seemed to Catton that the Morilaru’s tone in asking him to sit had been intentionally offensive.

      The Earthman sat. He lifted his attache case, placed it on the table before him, and thumbed the release catch. There was a moment’s halt while the scanner-band examined his thumbprint; then the case popped open. Catton drew forth a thin document bound in dark gray fabric.

      These are my credentials, he said, handing the document to Pouin Beryaal.

      The Morilaru nodded and leafed through the booklet with no apparent change of expression. When he had reached the last page he nodded again, and casually handed the papers to the ponderous Arenaddin. The Arenaddin’s eyes seemed to emerge from a welter of fat in order to scan the pages. The document was in all four of the major languages of the galaxy: Terran, Morilaru, Arenaddilak, and Skorg.

      In a moment, the Arenaddin was finished. He passed Catton’s document across the table to the Skorg, who leaned forward and perused it with awesome intensity for perhaps thirty seconds.

      Your papers are in order, Pouin Beryaal remarked. Earth now has a delegate to this Commission. Your colleagues, beside myself, are Ennid Uruod of Arenadd, and Merikh eMerikh of Skorg. Do you find the atmosphere of this room offensive, Lloyd Catton?

      I have no complaints.

      A stoic, said the Skorg in hollow, cavernous tones. He would have no complaints even if we turned off the scent-conditioners, no doubt.

      I don’t happen to be as sensitive to discomfort as some Earthmen are, Catton said, restraining himself. The smell of a Skorg was almost intolerable to an Earthman, he knew. But he also knew that Skorgs were tremendously less tolerant of Earthman-odor than Terrans of Skorgs; five minutes after the purifiers in the room were turned off, the Skorg would be groveling in a retching heap on the floor, while Catton would merely feel severe distaste. I would have no objections if the scent-conditioners are turned off, Catton said.

      That will not be necessary, said Pouin Beryaal dryly. We do not intentionally wish your discomfort, Earthman. You are, after all, a member of this Commission—a colleague.

      Catton nodded. He sensed the undercurrent of tension and hostility in the room. It was only to be expected. These three outworlders were representatives of races—Morilaru, Arenaddin, Skorg—that had known and vied with each other for centuries. Into the group had come a fourth race, galactic newcomers. Small wonder that the old, well-established races would regard the fast-moving humanoids from Sol III with some suspicion. Not yet a century had passed since Earth’s first contact with the other races of the galaxy. Hardly an instant, on the galactic timescale.

      Pouin Beryaal said, When we organized this Commission last year, we felt it was desirable to include an Earthman. Hence the invitation that resulted in your appointment and your presence here. Our problem is a problem that concerns every intelligent race in the galaxy.

      Hardly a new problem, rumbled the Arenaddin. But one that has become more serious in recent years. It is time to take concerted action.

      Have you ever seen a hypnojewel, Earthman? Pouin Beryaal asked.

      Catton shook his head. I’ve seen the documentary films on them, and I know what they can do. But I’ve never actually seen a hypnojewel itself.

      The Morilaru’s face creased in a faint smile. You should understand the nature of your enemy, Earthman, before you begin to plot his destruction. Here. Look at this, closely and with concentration.

      Pouin Beryaal drew a small glittering object from a green leather box on the table before him, and slid it down the burnished surface to Catton, who stopped it with his hand. He picked it up. It was a small cloudy gem, a good size for mounting in a ring. It was milk-white in color, and it had been cut with crude, irregular facets.

      This? Catton said.

      Look at it, murmured the Skorg.

      Uneasily, Catton concentrated on the surface of the stone. He had been warned, at the outset of this mission, to fear traps every step of the way. Perhaps it was better, he thought, not to look at the stone. These three outworlders might have prepared some unpleasant surprise for him. It was wisest to smile and decline the invitation, and hand the stone back. Yes, thought Catton. That was the wise thing to do. He would hand it back to Pouin Beryaal. He would—

      He could not take his eyes from the stone.

      It glowed, he saw now, with some inner light of its own. It was a warm radiant nimbus that swirled in patterns round the core of the gem, dancing and bobbing, weaving dizzyingly. Catton smiled. The tiny blaze of color was breathtakingly beautiful, an intertwining thicket of reds and greens and clashing blues. The stone appeared to have enlarged in size. It was tremendously relaxing to go on staring at it, watching the gay flame dance, while all tension ebbed away, all consciousness of self, all fears and torment vanished.

      The edge of an alien hand chopped down numbingly on the upturned wrist of the Earthman. Catton cried out, and his fingers, suddenly robbed of strength, opened to let the stone fall. It went skittering across the glossy floor. Pouin Beryaal scooped it up with a quick motion and restored it to its box.

      Catton sat transfixed, breathing deeply, while the vision of beauty faded. For almost half a minute, he could not speak.

      Half an hour more, said the Skorg, and to take that stone away from you would have been to destroy your mind. As it is you probably feel withdrawal pangs now.

      I feel as if my brain’s been drawn out through my forehead and embedded in that stone, Catton murmured.

      The effects are immediate and impressive, said the Arenaddin. There isn’t a humanoid race in the galaxy that can withstand them.

      Devilish, Catton said quietly. He was shaken to the core. Up till this moment, he had not really been interested in whether the hypnojewel trade flourished or not; his real purpose lay elsewhere. But now, as he measured the intensity of his yearning for the stone now hidden in the leather box, he realized that this matter was graver than he had suspected. Where do these things come from? he asked.

      We don’t know, Pouin Beryaal said. They almost seem to enter the galaxy of their own accord.

      We have suspicions, the Skorg interjected. There are races in the universe—non-humanoid races—which do not respond to the hypnotic effect of these jewels. One of those races might be manufacturing them and filtering them to the humanoid worlds. We do not know. But the trade in these jewels must be wiped out.

      Catton nodded weakly. He was a strong man; yet a few seconds’ exposure to the gem had left him limp. Yes. Earth will do its best in fighting this trade, he said.

      The jewels are absolutely deadly, exclaimed the Arenaddin. Men have been known to mail them to their enemies—who look at them and are immediately trapped. And there are others, voluntary addicts who escape this life by giving themselves up to the dreamworld the stones offer. Within an hour, the hold is unbreakable.

      Catton said, You did well to invite an Earthman to join this Commission. This is a matter that threatens the well-being of all worlds. It transcends what little differences of thinking there may be between Earth and the other humanoid cultures of the galaxy.

      Well spoken! Pouin Beryaal said. It seemed to Catton that there was more than a trace of cynicism in Beryaal’s tone. The hypnotic jewels were dangerous, of course. But the unvoiced enmity between Earth and the Morilar-Arenadd-Skorg axis would not vanish overnight in response to this threat to universal well-being. Only a fool would think so, and neither Catton nor the people who had chosen him for this journey could lay claim to the title of fool.

      "Have you any other—ah—demonstrations for me?" Catton asked.

      Just this, the Morilaru said. He drew a thick portfolio from a drawer in the table. It is a file of our investigations and deliberations previous to your arrival. It may help you to read this, in order to bring yourself up to date. We will have it coded for your retinal patterns.

      Chapter Two

      Catton was conducted to a laboratory elsewhere in the building, and there a technician took readings of his eyes with an elaborate measuring device. It was a familiar security measure among the Morilaru. From the retinal readings, a print of his retinal pattern—unique in the universe, as all were—was taken. The pattern was then embedded through a simple process on every page of the portfolio Beryaal had given him. As he turned each page, it would be necessary for Catton to stare at the sensitive patch for a few seconds, until the correspondence could be established. If he failed to perform the desensitization, or if any eyes but his scanned the page, the entire portfolio would char and burn beyond readability within half a minute.

      When they had finished preparing the portfolio for him, there was no further reason for Catton to remain in the building. He could not function as a member of the Commission until he had familiarized himself with the situation and with their previous conclusions. So, locking the portfolio carefully into his attache case, Catton made polite but distant farewells to his three fellow Commissioners and stepped out once again into the blazing heat of Dyelleran, capital-city of the world Morilar.

      It was early afternoon, now. The daily siesta-period was coming to its end. The temperature, Catton estimated, was still well over a hundred. He had been assured before he left Earth that there would be few days when the mercury dropped as low as ninety.

      In a way, he realized, Pouin Beryaal had been discourteous in calling the meeting for noonday. The heat was at its worst then; it had been deliberately tactless to force him to travel from his lodgings at that time. But Catton was prepared for rudeness on Morilar. Earthmen were not excessively popular here.

      He hailed a cab. It was android-operated, according to the sign on the door. The android, of course, was of the Morilaru type, with dark bluish-purple skin and the vestigial bony spikes on its shoulders. Each race created androids in its own image.

      Take me to the Terran Embassy, Catton said.

      The cab pulled away. It was cool inside; he loosened the throatband of his doublet. Traffic was heavy at this hour, and the trip across town, which had taken less than fifteen minutes in the morning, now lasted nearly three times as long. At length, though, the cab drew up outside the high gates of the Embassy. Catton pulled a couple of Morilaru coins from his pocket and dropped them into the pay-slot. The android automatically released the door-catch and Catton stepped out.

      Ten minutes later, he was in his room on the fifth floor of the Terran Embassy, climbing out of his sweat-soaked clothes and heading for the shower. After a quick freshening-up, he stretched out on the lounger and rang Service for something to eat.

      He was tired. The Morilaru gravity was about 1.2 that of Earth, and the heat was never-ending. But no one had ever implied he was going on an easy mission.

      There were rumors circulating in the galaxy that the three established humanoid races were planning some maneuver that would seriously damage the Terran economy. None of the talebearers could be very specific; no one had any concrete evidence. But the rumor persisted, and the Terran World Government was getting worried.

      Coincident with the rumors about an alien plot against Earth had come the request from Morilar for a Terrestrial delegate to a Commission whose job it would be to investigate and control the illegal interstellar traffic in hypnojewels. Catton, specially trained for his job, had been chosen as the delegate—with the additional task of keeping his eyes open and trying to detect some substance behind the rumors of an anti-Terran conspiracy. What better way was there to camouflage a special investigator than as a special investigator—for something else? Catton would be only superficially interested in uncovering the sources of the hypnojewel trade; his real job was to find out what plans the Morilar-Arenadd-Skorg worlds might have for bedeviling Earth.

      For they were troubled worlds, despite all their outward signs of calm. It was only ninety years before—2214, by Earth reckoning—that Earthmen had broken out into interstellar space. And now a dozen Terran colony-worlds hung in the sky; Terran traders operated with skill and efficiency on the planets of the older cultures; Terra had won a place as a ranking galactic power. All in ninety years.

      Not surprising, then, that Morilar—whose interstellar era was more than a thousand years old—feared Earth. Or that Skorg, which once had been dominant in half the galaxy before the rise of Arenadd, viewed the newcomers with alarm. Nor, for that matter, that the fleshy people of Arenadd, themselves relatively late arrivals in the galactic scheme of things, with only a few hundred years of star travel behind them, should be worried about the rise of a new galactic power.

      Perhaps the three worlds schemed some way of throttling the Terran expansion. Which was why Catton had been sent to the outworlds. He was an observer; he was to watch, and see, and possibly to discover what steps the threatened worlds meant to take to maintain their galactic supremacy.

      After Catton had refreshed himself and eaten, he turned his attention to the portfolio Pouin Beryaal had given him.

      He lifted the metal hasp and stared at the solemn warning on the first page:

      NOTICE!

      This book is for use by authorized persons only. It is coded to prevent unauthorized persons from obtaining access to its contents. Turning this page without taking the proper precautions will result in instantaneous destruction of the entire volume.

      Catton turned the page to look at the words that were meant for his eyes alone. In the margin at the upper left-hand corner of the page was a small pinkish oval patch, about the size of a man’s thumb. As he had been instructed to do, Catton stared at the patch, counting off five seconds. Then he began to read. The code had been keyed in; for the next ten minutes, he could leave that page of the portfolio open without fear of its destruction. A longer look would require him to desensitize the protective patch a second time.

      He read with care, pausing each time he turned the page to desensitize the marginal patch. It developed from the reports that the Commission had already uncovered considerable data. Included in the papers he had been given were details on the number of hypnojewels in the galaxy—more than a thousand were known to exist, and many of these had already been located and confiscated. But each year a dozen or more new gems entered the galaxy. The problem was not so much to track down and confiscate those jewels that already were in circulation, as to cut off the pipeline at its beginning.

      There were speculations that the jewels originated in the fringes of the galaxy, on one of the worlds populated by non-humanoid beings. Eleven different non-humanoid races had been found to suffer no ill effects as a result of handling the jewels. But any humanoid who stared at one for more than a few seconds found himself drawn inextricably into the hypnotic web.

      Catton finished leafing through the collection of transcripts. The situation seemed a genuine one: the aliens were troubled about the spread of this hypnojewel thing, and they had decided to enlist the aid of Earth by inviting an Earthman to join the Commission. There was no actual state of hostility between Earth and the other three galactic powers, of course; there was only a chill incordiality that had led a Terran historian to revive an old term, and dub the present galactic situation a Cold War.

      Cold War it was. Terra and her few colonies versus the seventy worlds controlled by the Morilar-Arenadd-Skorg axis. Diplomatic relationships still prevailed, and the worlds still engaged in friendly trade. But there was no telling when some crucial act of hostility might touch off an open war. And the advent of Earth onto the galactic scene had driven the other three worlds into their closest alliance in centuries.

      Catton decided to test the effectiveness of the Morilar secrecy precautions. Leafing through the portfolio once again, he selected one page—it contained some unimportant data on budgetary appropriations for the Commission—and ripped it loose from the binding. Carefully, Catton closed the portfolio, and placed the loose page on the table before him, deliberately neglecting to key in the sensitized patch.

      He got results in less than thirty seconds. The sheet of paper began to turn brown along the tear; then, almost instantaneously, its entire surface was swept with a wash of blue flame, and within moments nothing but crumpled ash lay on the table. Catton nodded and cleared up the mess. He was going to have trouble carrying on his investigation if all secret Morilaru documents were as proof to spying as this one obviously had been.

      Rising, he locked the portfolio away in the privacy-cabinet in his closet, and proceeded to dress, formally, in a stiff tunic of green with gold trim, a wide orange sash, and high polished boots. This evening there would be a reception at the Embassy in his honor.

      When he was dressed, Catton locked his room and strolled down the wide, carpet-cushioned corridor of the Embassy’s floor. It was a spacious and attractive building.

      The sound of music was in the air—tinkling alien music, played on a strange instrument that produced a plangent tone not unlike that of a harpsichord. Following the music, Catton rounded the bend in the corridor and found himself at the entrance to a drawing-room which was occupied by several people. The music came to an abrupt halt at his arrival.

      Catton saw that the people in the room were not all human. There were five: two Morilaru, lean and angular in their tight clothing, and three Terrans. Catton recognized two of the Terrans—Estil, the Ambassador’s eighteen-year-old daughter, and her tutor, an elderly woman named Mrs. Larch. The remaining person was a Terran of dignified aspect who wore formal business clothes.

      It had been Estil who had been playing, it seemed. She was seated at a wide keyboard connected to a complex stringed instrument of alien design.

      Pardon me, Catton said. I didn’t mean to intrude. I simply heard music, and—

      Please be welcome here, Estil said. She spoke well, but formally; she had the accents of a child who had been raised with care, by a too-devoted governess. Catton had formed that impression the night before, during their brief meeting when he had arrived at the Embassy from the spaceport.

      The girl rose from the keyboard and, graciously taking Catton’s hand, led him all the way into the room. This is Mr. Lloyd Catton, of Earth, she announced. He arrived on Morilar last night. He’s—uh—a member of the new Interworld Commission on Crime. Am I right, Mr. Catton?

      Precisely, he told her.

      She made introductions. This is Doveril Halligon, she said. My music teacher. And his friend, Gonnimor Cleeren.

      How do you do, Catton said gravely to the two aliens. They bowed in return.

      I think you know Mrs. Larch, Estil said. And this, she went on, pointing to the somber, middle-aged gentleman in business clothes, is Mr. Bartlett, a friend of my father’s from Earth.

      Catton and Bartlett shook hands. Catton felt vaguely uncomfortable about the entire little scene. It was more convenient for him to stay at the Embassy than anywhere else on Morilar, but he was not easily at home in the milieu of drawing-room music recitals.

      He said a trifle awkwardly, The music sounded charming from a distance, Miss Seeman. I’d appreciate it if you’d continue playing.

      Estil flushed prettily and returned to the keyboard. Her governess said, The instrument is known as the gondran. Estil has been studying with Doveril Halligon for two years now. She has become quite proficient.

      Catton stared at the alien music teacher for an instant. Doveril Halligon did not meet the glance. Instead he signaled to Estil, who began to play—falteringly, at first, but gaining in confidence after the first few measures. The piece seemed, to Catton’s untutored ears, to be a difficult one; the keyboard technique was tricky, and the harmonies were strange. He joined politely in the applause when the last tinkling note had died away.

      An Embassy android entered the drawing-room bearing a little tray of cool drinks, and a few minutes of sociability followed the end of Estil’s recital. Catton, improvising desperately, managed to keep the conversation going as he discussed musical techniques with the two aliens, while Mrs. Larch and Estil exchanged sentences with Bartlett. Then the groupings broke up. Catton and Estil started across the room toward each other. Suddenly the girl stumbled and began to fall to her knees.

      Catton moved forward rapidly, caught the girl, and steadied her on her feet before anyone else could move.

      Are you all right?

      Perfectly, she said. Thanks very kindly. In a lower voice she added, I have to speak to you alone tonight. It’s very important.

      Chapter Three

      There were more than a hundred guests at the reception in Catton’s honor that evening. The list included virtually every Terran of note in Dyelleran. A quartet of Morilaru musicians kept up an endless flow of melody; the punchbowl, spiked with a tawny alien liquor, was never allowed to be empty. Catton did not care much for this sort of formal pomp, but he knew it was essential to his role that he allow himself to be presented to the world as a typical Terran diplomat.

      As guest of honor, it was his privilege to claim the first dance with the Ambassador’s daughter. The alien musicians played a fair approximation of a waltz, interpolating just enough of their own chromatic harmonies to destroy any link the waltz tune might have had with ancient Vienna. Estil moved lightly in Catton’s arms. She was a slim girl, gravely attractive, with serious violet-blue eyes and a soft cloud of dark hair.

      You said you wanted to talk to me alone tonight, Catton said softly as they swung round the floor.

      Yes. I’m in trouble, Mr. Catton. Maybe you can help me.

      Me? How can I help? I’m a stranger here?

      She nodded. Perhaps that’s how. Somehow I know I can trust you. I hope you don’t mind listening to me go on like this.

      I’m always willing to help a damsel in distress. What’s your difficulty, Miss Seeman?

      I’ll—I’ll tell you about it later. We’ll go out on the balcony to talk. Daddy will think it’s so romantic of us!

      Catton smiled, but within himself he felt uneasy. He hoped the girl was not leading up to something along the line of telling him she had fallen for him at first sight. For one thing, charming though she was, she was only a child, half his age; for another, his profession made romantic entanglements of any sort unwise. But he realized he was probably flattering himself. Estil would not be likely to develop much romantic interest for a craggy-faced man who was almost forty. He wondered what kind of trouble she was in.

      The dance came to its end, and Catton escorted the girl across the floor to the table at which her father sat. Ambassador Seeman was a great barrel of a man, immensely tall, hugely broad; his voice was a mellow bass boom. As the Terran World Government’s Ambassador to Morilar, it was his task to keep diplomatic relations between the two worlds on an even keel despite the constant stresses that arose.

      Your daughter dances very well, Catton said.

      Seeman chuckled. She’s had good tutors. I’ve spared no expense.

      A man wearing the uniform of an officer in the Terran Space Navy approached, said something to Estil, and danced away with her. As soon as the girl was beyond ear-shot, the Ambassador remarked, She’s come along wonderfully well since her mother died. Become the very image of my wife.

      How long ago did she die?

      Twelve years. Almost as soon as we arrived on Morilar. Estil was six, then. She hardly remembers Earth at all now, except as a vague blur.

      You haven’t been back in all this time?

      No, Seeman said. She’s never shown any interest in returning to Earth. Morilar is her home world, I’m afraid. After all, she’s spent two-thirds of her life here.

      Catton nodded. A woman came up to them; Catton had been introduced to her earlier in the evening, and he dimly recalled that she was the wife of one of the lesser Terran diplomats stationed on Morilar. They made conversation for a while, and then Catton completed the formalities by dancing with her. She chattered on and on about the complexities of life on an alien world—houseboy trouble, the heat, the strange food, all the rest.

      The evening dragged along. Some time later, Catton found himself dancing with Estil again; and, at the end of the dance, they strolled out onto the open balcony at the far side of the ballroom. Catton noted with irritation that they were being stared at, and no doubt commented upon, as they left the dance floor.

      The night was warm. The sky, speckled with the unfamiliar constellations, was partly veiled with murky clouds. The two bright moons of Morilar hung high overhead. Below them, the city sprawled out toward the horizon.

      Estil said, Will you promise to keep absolutely secret everything I’m going to tell you?

      That’s a pretty tall order. Suppose you tell me that the sun’s going nova. Should I keep the news to myself?

      Catton regretted his facetiousness instantly. She said, "I mean it. Please be serious."

      All right. I’m sorry. What do you want to tell me, Estil?

      I’m in love, she said simply.

      Catton peered out over the balcony. A river wound like a glittering snake through the heart of the city. Every girl your age should be in love, he said. It’s good for the spirit.

      You’re patronizing me, she said crisply.

      Catton smiled. I guess I am. Again, I’m sorry. I mean it. I won’t do it again.

      Will you hear me out?

      Go on, he said.

      Very well. I’m in love with my music teacher. Doveril Halligon. You met him this afternoon in the drawing-room.

      Her quiet words detonated like bombshells. Catton turned pale. He swung round to face her. But—but he’s a Morilaru! An alien!

      "He’s a person, she replied. A kind, warmhearted person. As good as any Earthman I’ve ever known. Why shouldn’t I love him? He understands me. He loves me."

      Catton moistened his lips. The implications of this thing were explosive. An ambassador’s daughter, in love with an alien? The scandal would be enormous. All right, he said calmly.

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